


In Anticipation of Loss

by ChocolatePecan



Series: A Place for Tomorrow [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Angst, Blood, Coma, Drama, Entrapment, FFXV Brotherhood, Gen, Hospitals, Hurt/Comfort, Promptis if you squint, Rules of Magic, emotional declarations, injuries, intensive care unit, noct doubts his abilities, noct loves intimacy but not like this, prompto has the heart of a god but the body of a mortal, prompto is in a bad way, regis is a great dad but can't heal anymore, road traffic accident
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-01
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-01 00:34:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15131192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChocolatePecan/pseuds/ChocolatePecan
Summary: It should be a bright summer's day, with curling white clouds and a blinding sun. But it isn't. It's raining like it doesn't know how to stop.It should be simple for Noct and Prompto to get the bus home from school, even in this weather. But it isn't. A steep hill made slick by rain and coated with the grease of a hot, dry summer makes trouble for buses with weak brakes.





	1. Wrong Place, Wrong Time

**Author's Note:**

  * For [whimsofffate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/whimsofffate/gifts).



> Man, it's so good to be productive again! I'm sorry I haven't got back to all my commenters yet. My health has been a bit wonky lately. I promise, I will respond to everybody :)
> 
> This is the fifth prompt fill from an 'inspire me!' request on my [tumblr](https://chocolatepecan.tumblr.com/) a while back. I'm not taking new prompts for now, as I have another three after this one - and this fic has decided to be a two-parter. Thanks go to my favourite person, kay_cricketed, for helping me brainstorm all the best h/c tropes!
> 
> This one's for the very lovely whimsofffate and their prompt words: Noct, Insomnia, rain, and accident. I hope you enjoy it! :D

The summer storm started early in the afternoon. The rain hasn’t eased since, and the sky is smoked out with rainclouds. At the bus stop stands a crowd of people trying not to get soaked, sticking whatever they can of themselves under the shelter. There are black umbrellas as far as Noct can see, carried by sharply dressed commuters and wise, knee-high wearing middle-schoolers.

The walk from school to the bus stop takes little more than five minutes, but even running he and Prompto had found themselves with their trousers flapping wetly at the ankle and their hair rained almost flat.

Prompto shivers beside him and rubs his sodden shirt sleeves. “Uuuugh, why are buses always late when it rains?”

“Because traffic slows down to prevent accidents.” Noct shifts his backpack to a more comfortable position and does up the button on his jacket. “Not like it’s that cold, anyway.”

“Yeah, sure, if you listened to the weather reports this morning and dressed properly!” Prompto’s teeth are chattering. He left his jacket at home and has been moaning about it since lunchtime.  “Not all of us have an Ignis, dude.”

“So? I don’t have one today, either.”

It’s common for Ignis to pick them up near the school gates, dropping Prompto off on the way back to Noct’s apartment. But Noct had asked Ignis to attend a meeting on his behalf, and so there had been no car waiting when they stepped outside. Noct could have asked Cor to arrange a collection, but waiting around in the rain for a car so they could avoid getting wet in the first place wasn’t going to work.

Prompto’s nipples stand erect from the cold. Feeling mischievous, Noct leans in to pinch one through the shirt, receiving a satisfying squawk in response. Prompto gives him the elbow, and while Noct would usually dodge it on principle he lets him have the victory with a grin.

It’s probably best to distract Prompto from his current predicament. Food and photography are Noct’s regular tools of choice.

“How long does the app say?” he asks.

Whipping his phone out of his pocket and wiping down the screen, Prompto checks how far away the bus is. “Two minutes. If we can even get on it. It’s probably full already.”

“Time for a quick pitstop, then.” Noct eyes the convenience store directly across the road. “You want anything?”

“Uh, for you to not miss the bus?” Prompto blows at a drop of rain dangling from his nose.

Noct looks both ways before stepping out into the road. “Send me a message when you see it up the hill. I’ll be fifteen seconds from then.”

Prompto raises his voice to be heard over the splash of rain. “On it! And I’ll have a chocolate bar of your choice!”

Noct runs between the cars stopped at the traffic lights, not bothering to cover his head. His hair is a lost cause already. Stepping smartly into the convenience store, he heads straight to the chocolate display beside the counter. He doesn’t have time to be too picky, but browses before reaching for two KitKats. He’s sure Prompto’s told him those are least likely to wreck his diet.

Other people have had the same idea he did, and there’s a queue to be served. Noct waits impatiently as an elderly lady counts the change given to her by the bored-looking twenty-something shopkeeper. Afterwards, a suited man buys a packet of gum.

Then it’s Noct’s turn to pay. He doesn’t carry cash, and the royal family’s ‘Tenderblack’ payment card tends to raise eyebrows, but the guy behind the counter doesn’t even notice as Noct touches it to the card machine.

As he puts the card back in his pocket, Noct’s phone beeps. He unlocks the screen to see a message from Prompto that reads: _bs!_ Noct smirks, making a mental note to jibe Prompto about calling Insomnia’s bus service bullshit. He nods his thanks to the shopkeeper.

Biting the edge of his KitKat wrapper to tear it open, Noct hears a large vehicle breaking at speed. Instinct turns him towards the doorway and he hears a scream outside, then two screams, followed by a group intake of breath. A vehicle horn sounds loudly. It seems too high pitched to belong to a large vehicle, and that’s the thought that stays with Noct in the seconds that follow.

His mind resets itself, glitching back a few steps as though to cast doubt on its experience and try processing it again.

The bus comes into view at the wrong angle. It careens past the shop doorway, mounting the pavement opposite. The _boom_ and _crack_ of the impact are the first noises all day loud enough to shame the rain. Cars swerve and drivers swear, stepping out of their cars to stare.

The subdued tinkle of glass and debris brings Noct back to reality.

The bus was out of control and has hit the shelter.

The shelter has a large crowd of people waiting at it.

Prompto is one of them.

The screams swell from a few to too many, and Noct flings himself out of the convenience store. He doesn’t know what to do with his thoughts or hands. Only his feet know what they’re doing. He has one instinct, a single urge that drives him between halted cars to the devastated shelter.

People are scattered everywhere and have differing levels of injuries. Scanning them for any sign of Prompto, it’s the colours Noct remembers them wearing that stand out most.

A woman and her young son had been wearing blues and yellows. She’s wobbly but upright, dripping crimson on her blouse from a gash on her temple. The child is inconsolable.

Two freshmen from a local school had been sharing a bag of crisps, their uniforms coloured pine green and navy blue. One of them is prone on the ground, the other trying to rise from all fours.

An elderly man had been slouched on a seat in caramel brown trousers and a camouflage cap. He’s on his back, being tended to by a woman in purple who must have joined the queue after Noct left.

An anxious middle-aged man had been focused on his smartphone, wearing a black suit. He’s stumbling out into the road, arms outstretched, gathering help from the drivers of disarrayed cars.

As regent in waiting, Noct should attend to these people, take control, somehow acknowledge their distress. But right now all he cares about is finding a blonde with a loose green and yellow house tie, white shirt, and grey trousers.

The bus door opens and the driver trips out, both hands covering his mouth to capture his horror. He’s followed by a flood of passengers. They add to the inimitable sounds of distress.

Dazed, Noct turns on the spot, trying to catch a glimpse of Prompto. The blonde hair usually sticks out wherever they are – Noct can see him half a road away. There’s no sign, and Noct feels his heart pounding in his throat so hard he could almost swallow it whole.

“Prompto?” _Don’t panic_ , Noct tells himself. _Don’t panic, he’s here somewhere. He has to be._ “Prompto!”

He starts to pick up other sounds through the discord. People are making phonecalls, shouting names, offering each other help.

_Hello, we need ambulances. A bus has hit a shelter. I don’t know, there are a lot of hurt people, please, just hurry._

With every fractional turn of his head, Noct picks up another conversation.

_Mom, I’m okay. Yeah, I’m okay. I know, I’m crying. I wanted to tell you there’s been an accident, but I’m all right. I didn’t want you to hear about it from anyone else._

There’s only one thing Noct’s listening for, one thing he needs to hear.

_No, I’m all right, my love. You look after that man over there with the arm. Looks broken._

He just needs Prompto to shout back.

_A teenager! There was a blonde teenager here!_

Noct turns towards the voice. The woman’s face is now masked in blood. She looks squarely at Noct, grasping her distraught son to her chest. Her pupils are so dilated that Noct can’t tell what colour her iris’ are.

“He was with you,” she says, and smears the blood on her cheek with a sleeve. “He pushed us out of the way and now I don’t see him.”

Noct feels like he’s been clubbed in the head, and jolts with the imaginary rebound. The story enters his mind as though a flip book – Prompto seeing the bus come for him, calculating the speed and distance and knowing he doesn’t have time, reaching to spare anyone he can before –

Noct’s phone buzzes in his hand. Only half aware of his actions and still swaying, he flicks the screen to unlock it.

The notification bar shows receipt of a text. A single, impossible text from a number labelled ‘Nerdosaur’, the tag he’d given Prompto after he’d spent an afternoon enthusing about every little trick his new smartphone did.

_help_

Noct’s fingers take less than a second as he texts back: _where_

The pause is long enough for adrenaline shakes to catch up with him and his eyes to dry from staring at the screen.

_undr bus_

Noct throws off his jacket. He doesn’t feel the pavement under his hands or knees, or even the glass fragments that scatter the area like a con artist’s gems. The partly crumpled chassis of the bus snags his shirt, tearing it at the shoulder as he slithers quickly under.

Prompto’s still holding his phone in one hand, sprawled underneath the bus. His sleeves are bloodied, and as Noct crawls closer he sees that he’s pinned hard by the shoulders, trapped and unable to move with all the the weight of a bus on his chest.

Then, for a moment, Noct isn’t under the bus anymore. He’s a small boy again, stunned and bleeding, spread out on the floor under the arm of his dying nurse. Blood pools beneath his hands, and his blurred vision is lit by fire. The roar of the Marillith, trapped in his memory, makes him gasp a breath. He bucks under the bus’ chassis, and his back takes a blow that makes it hurt like it did then.

Prompto’s thigh is ice cold, but it brings Noct back to now as he scrabbles to get closer. Prompto’s eyes meet his, and the fear in them makes Noct want to pick the bus up and throw it.

“Can you move?” There’s still too much adrenaline in Noct’s shoulders, and his hands shake as he tries to find enough gap between Prompto and the crenels of the undercarriage to squeeze his fingers in.

“No,” Prompto manages, then higher pitched, “Nononono stopstop!” as Noct grabs his hips to pull.

Growling in pain, Prompto mouths a swear. “No, I’m stuck. And I think – ” he gasps “– I’ve broken my ribs. And my hips aren’t right.”

His hips weren’t right. They weren’t trapped like his shoulders, but flexible as he was he shouldn’t have been able to put his legs at the angle they were in. His breathing wasn’t right, either. It was too fast, and it made his voice weak. He could have been doing his best to shout for Noct since the bus hit, and Noct wouldn’t have heard him above the symphony of distress.

Prompto’s shoulders are pressed almost to his ears, raised like a starling’s wings before take-off. Blood soaks his shirt to the elbow on both sides, and as Noct watches, his nose starts to drip, too. His neck clicks as his head lilts towards the tarmac.

 Noct is as quick at slithering out as he was slithering in. Stumbling to his feet he yells, “Help, we need to move the bus! Somebody’s trapped under here!”

“Can we lift it and get him out?” The black-suited man asks, looking around for support. Somebody Noct doesn’t recognise – a passing driver, maybe, wearing a dirty t-shirt and blue jeans – leads the charge to the rear of the bus. Every person at the scene capable of doing so clusters there, and hands find whatever holds they can: on the bumper, under the chassis, behind the rear fenders. Somewhere Noct can hear a phonecall about ‘trapped’ and ‘bus’ and knows somebody is already calling for additional help.

He doesn’t take a place at the back with the others. Instead, he crouches to check on Prompto. He can just make eye contact with him in the shadows.

“We’re gonna try to move the bus.” Squinting, Noct can just see Prompto’s mouth moving in response, but he can’t hear what he says.

Looking up at the crowd, he bellows, “Quiet!”

The command comes from a long line of Lucian kings, and at that moment Noct feels like he’s channelling all of them. The near-silence he needs to check on Prompto is swift, and every head that can do so turns to him. Gazing over his future subjects, Noct feels a flood of warmth. Even the walking wounded have gone to the back of the bus to help.

Noct looks back under the bus and matches Prompto’s tired gaze. “Go again.”

“Do it,” is all Prompto can manage this time, but it’s enough.

The blue jeans man leads the count. “On three! One! Two! Three!”

The bus groans with the effort expended on it, as men and women both give their all to raise it enough to free Prompto. But the bus lifts only a few centimetres, and it’s not enough to do anything but make Prompto scream. Noct feels it at right the base of his spine, almost as though it’s his own.

“Stop! Stop, dammit!” Noct yells to the group, and with a collective grunt the bus tyres settle back to the ground. Noct slithers under the bus again, getting too used to the scratch of broken safety glass on his belly.

If Prompto looked bad before, he looks worse now. He’s greyer, and his lips are starting to tinge blue. His hands are swollen, too swollen to hold the smartphone he’d called for help with. Noct pinches the blood from Prompto’s nose, closing it in his fist and brushing the softs of his clenched fingers over his cheek. “Help’s coming. Just hold on.”

“Uh-huh. S’me, holding on.” Prompto smiles. Noct’s sure there’s a laugh behind it somewhere, if only Prompto could get it out.

Noct edges out from under the bus to find a store he can get something warm and dry from. Kindly witnesses have beaten him to it, bringing piles of blankets from their apartments. Even the previously dispassionate shopkeeper has made his way over with as many bottles of water as he can carry and is helping to comfort the injured. Noct grabs a bottle and a blanket, tossing them under the bus before he makes his way under to join them.

He covers Prompto in the soft fleece as well as he can with only wriggle room to do so. His own arms and hands will be bruised come tomorrow for the amount he’s banged them against the chassis, but it doesn’t matter. Despite picking up the bottle there’s little he can do to help Prompto drink, so between them they decide it’s not worth the trial of making it work.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Prompto slurs. “S’dangerous.”

Noct lays down in front of him, their faces inches apart. While he can’t make his hips do what Prompto’s are doing, and he can’t afford to jam his shoulders into the chassis, he does what he can to mimic Prompto’s position. There’s nothing else he can do to help, and Noct’s anger at that swarms his chest like fire ants. Neither of them has ever been any good at waiting, and never has it felt more important.

He can do something about that crick in Prompto’s neck, though. Resting his face against the back of his hand, Noct reaches out to lift his friend’s head and cradles his cheek. The look Prompto gives him is a combination of grateful and just damned well done with all this. Prompto’s bloody shirt sleeves are hidden by the blanket, but Noct’s flashback to his past is becoming too real as red puddles around the edge.

“I leave you for two minutes and you get hit by a bus.” Noct attempts a smile he doesn’t feel.

“Y’know me, dude.” Prompto’s breaths are thinner than ever. Noct waits for him to deliver the punchline, but he doesn’t get there. He’s waylaid by an eyeroll-inducing wave of pain, and pants out the confirmation, “This _fuckin’_ hurts.”

There’s nothing Noct can do about the pain except try to distract him from it. “Aren’t you supposed to be claustrophobic? I thought you’d have thrown the bus off yourself by now.”

“Brain knows body can’t panic,” Prompto says, huffing a thin laugh before pain crumples his features again. His nose drips blood into Noct’s palm. It’s warm, and vital, and Noct wants to give it back but he knows it doesn’t work that way so he leaves it just where it is.

He’s still trying to think of some way to lift Prompto’s spirits when Prompto says, voice cracking, “I’m tired.”

“No. Don’t go to sleep.” Noct edges closer, trying to ease the pressure on his elbow at the same time as giving Prompto some of his warmth. For summer, today feels an awful lot like midwinter. In the shadow of the impinging chassis and with the sounds outside muted by several tons of metal husk, it feels like they’re the only two people in the world. In other circumstances, the proximity might be nice – the warm comfort of a safe and sure bond. Under the bus, they’re just two more pieces of debris trying to remember how to be alive.

Prompto starts to shiver. Noct pulls the blanket up to his neck, not moving the hand that supports his head.

“Help is coming.” Noct knows he’s said that, but it’s all he can think of. It hurts to focus on Prompto’s condition, so instead he focuses on the eventual helpers that will extricate Prompto from his trap.

“S’no place for princes.” Prompto blinks slowly at Noct. His face is barely inches away, and Noct sees the tears in his eyes. He wonders if Prompto sees the tears in his.

“Save your breath. I’m not going.”

“Ignis’ll be mad about your shirt.”

“Nobody’s going to be mad about anybody’s shirt.”

Prompto closes his eyes. Noct defers his panic for several seconds before the swell of it ambushes him.

“Prompto? Don’t go to sleep, I said.” Noct thumbs his cheek. “Prompto?”

Prompto’s eyelids flutter as he tries to maintain control of them. “M’restin eyes.”

“Don’t rest them too hard.”

The shriek of emergency sirens reaches Noct, getting louder as they gain ground. He’s never been more pleased to hear them. “Hey, Blondie. You hear that? Phonecall for you.”

There’s little sign of Noct’s terminally happy Prompto anymore. Whatever tethers his spirit to his body is stretched too thin. His eyes aren’t focused on Noct now, and he has to breathe with his mouth open. Even his nose is tinted blue.

Prompto murmurs, “Ssit time yet?”

Noct struggles to answer. “Time for what?”

Prompto’s lips move, but Noct can’t hear him over the screech of sirens as an ambulance pulls up alongside the bus. Noct smashes his head on the undercarriage as he claws his way closer to Prompto and wraps one hand around his neck, using the other to stroke his face clean.

He’s suffocating. Whatever they did to him when they moved the bus has made things worse, not better. Noct almost chokes as he’s overcome with wordless knowledge: this is what it’s like to watch your long-sought-for best friend die.

“Prompto,” he says, and his voice hitches. “Prompto. Come on. Come on, don’t do this. Don’t do this now.”

Prompto’s lungs might not be able to support yelling, but Noct’s are in fine fettle and when a pair of bright yellow trousers appear in his sightline he hollars, “Help! Down here, under the bus! Help us!”

Noct protests when the paramedics ask him to move, but he knows they have a job to do and he’s in the way of it. His elbow is agonising for being held in a stress position so long, but it’s slow return to movement just makes him frustrated.

He might not be able to stay under the bus at Prompto’s side, but there’s nothing to stop him crouching by the fender and reaching in to support his head. When the paramedics make him redundant by putting a neck brace on Prompto, Noct finds his hands drawn to his bedraggled hair instead. He teases it out of the way of the hand-held resuscitator being used to keep Prompto breathing.

“Highness.” The voice isn’t one Noct recognises. He turns to find a balding paramedic crouched beside him. Noct feels the blank look on his face, even as the man raises his eyebrows. Why was he wasting time hovering there when Prompto clearly needed all the helpers to get out from under the bus?

“Has anyone checked you over?” The paramedic asks.

Noct shakes his head. “I wasn’t here when the bus hit.”

He ignores the paramedic when he asks if he needs to be examined anyway. There’s no point in wasting time on something as insignificant as injuries he doesn’t have, grazed stomach and shoulder aside. Instead, Noct focuses on the needles being stuck in Prompto’s arms and thighs, and the bags of fluid being passed from hand to hand on the far side of the bus.

For the first time, Noct notices Prompto’s only wearing one shoe. It shouldn’t matter, but it does. It’s degrading for him to be seen showing a single blue sock with yellow chocobos on it to anyone and everyone. They’re private. He deserves some dignity. Being spread-eagled on the ground under a bus with paramedics cutting your pants off is demeaning enough.

Noct’s body stands and walks off to find the missing black loafer, but his mind stays solidly at Prompto’s side. His sense of touch is blunted as he turns over debris, and he’s only loosely aware of his actions as he looks under cars and upends the blankets.

He finds the shoe after another ten minutes of searching. He’s not sure what causes him to stand in the doorway and grasp the roof of the bus. But when he pulls himself up to inspect the roof, the scuffed loafer is resting on its side between the A and 8 of the bus’ roof markings.

He doesn’t get a chance to put it on the bereft foot. Heavy lifting equipment has been put in place to raise the bus, and the paramedics are preparing Prompto for a quick extraction. He’s still unconscious, and Noct doesn’t know if that’s a good thing or not. He crouches beside the bus, inexplicably needing one hand on it to stay steady.

The paramedic using the respirator to breathe for Prompto stays under with him. Noct is tempted to ask her to swap places, but as he considers it a policeman issues the order to raise the bus.

The emergency services are so coordinated that removing Prompto is almost a ballet. The bus rises majestically from all tyres, and men move as though they’ve been doing this every day of their lives. Prompto is soon turned onto his back, moved onto a pallet, and pulled out into the light. The paramedics waste no time in adjusting fluids, applying an oxygen mask, and making Prompto stable enough to put in the back of the ambulance.

It never seems quite the right time to put the shoe back on. Instead, Noct holds onto it as he gets up into the back of the ambulance, staying right alongside Prompto’s motionless form as two paramedics continue to work on him.

“Highness, would it be better to stay here for your entourage?” a police sergeant asks from the doorway. “They have been called.”

Noct looks down at him. “No,” he says. “He’s claustrophobic. And he panics. I don’t want him waking up alone.” His unexpectedly gravel-toned voice makes him sound more like his dad than himself. It seems to work on the policeman though. He bows respectfully and moves away.

A paramedic closes the rear doors of the ambulance. Noct lets another tell him where he can sit to stay out of the way. Even sitting seems to drain him.

With the shoe clutched in both hands, he rests his head against the side of the ambulance. The engine starts up, along with the blue lights and sirens, and the ambulance pulls away from the last place Noct spoke to his best friend.

He should have told him what he means to him. Even with all that awkward nerdiness, he’s safe hands, and behind the social ineptitude is a heart too warm to ignore.

He should have told him he loves him. 


	2. If Wishes Were Horses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It wasn't possible to see the extent of Prompto's injuries under the bus. It's not until the doctors rush him away from Noct and spend hours working to stabilise him that the gravity of what happened really starts to sink in.
> 
> As doctors fight for Prompto's life, Noct is reminded that he has the latent power to heal in his genes.
> 
> But can he learn how to channel healing magic before time runs out?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for sticking around, guys! I hope chapter two fulfils all your hurt/comfort needs <3

When they arrive at the hospital, Prompto is rushed away to a partitioned area at the back of the emergency room. A doctor wearing a stethoscope and a pair of disposable gloves asks Noct to move away. She tells him to go and take a seat in the waiting area. Behind her, another doctor calls instructions to the medical staff, and they respond with updates on Prompto’s condition. It means everything and nothing to Noct – everything because it’s Prompto, and nothing because he doesn’t understand it.

Noct wants to stay with Prompto, but he understands. Out of respect for both his friend and the doctors working on him, Noct walks numbly into the waiting area.  

Other victims of the crash have been brought to the emergency room, too. It’s crowded with people clutching their heads, or nursing their arms, or ankles, or any number of other injuries. Noct feels out of place here as a witness who’s in need of little more than sticking plasters. Still, there’s nowhere more important for him to be.

Eyes here recognise him, and people start to talk amongst each other. Rude though it might be, Noct doesn’t want to exchange pleasantries, and finds it hard to deal with the referred distress of his subjects. He stands, wanting to stay near the partitioned area, but unable to tolerate it. Following a sign for the toilets, he uses it as an excuse to leave the waiting area.

For some time, Noct haunts the corridors. He moves from the emergency room to the café and back, buying a can of Ebony every time. He passes the medical records department, and wards with names like Orchard, Daffodil, and Grapevine.

A kindly porter who noticed his listless wandering ushers Noct to a side room. He’s not sure the porter even recognises him. Maybe he’s just that kind to everybody. The closeted room is painted lilac, with a coffee table and hard, violet sofa. There’s a bookshelf in the corner filled with children’s books. Next to it stands a low table with a small crate holding wooden children’s toys on top.

It’s been exactly one hour and thirty-two minutes since Prompto was admitted. Noct puts the shoe on the floor next to him. He hadn’t realised he was still holding it until he bought the first coffee. He hadn’t put it down then, in case he forgot it.

Three minutes later, the door opens. Gladio steps in, striding as though he’ll keep going whether there’s a wall opposite him or not. Ignis pushes against the doorframe to slip past Gladio and into the room. Noct looks up to see concern on their faces, then looks back down at the can of Ebony slowly cooling in his hands.

He’s memorised the headlines of the magazine on the coffee table. He remains focused on it as Ignis sits on one side of him, and Gladio squeezes in on the other.

_100 Top Style Icons of All Time,_ Noct reads _._

“Are you hurt? Were you at the stop?” Ignis has dropped all his inscrutability.

“Why didn’t you wait for Cor?” Gladio’s raised voice booms between the four close walls. “I had to convince him I had you covered, because he was all for coming in here to extract you.”

_Fake it to make it! 82 bootleg styles for less than you think._

Noct flips the magazine onto its front cover. “Prompto was pinned under the bus.”

They’re both silent as the news sinks in. Noct would like to tell his advisor and shield that he didn’t want to leave his best friend in the emergency room, but if he’d left him alone under the bus he might have done less damage. The ache in his chest makes him want to say that he’s finding it hard to see a future with Prompto in it, and that any future without him is one he doesn’t want to have.

He says nothing. He knows Gladio and Ignis will encourage him to prioritise his duties to the nation over his duties to his friend.

Gladio is subdued as he asks, “How bad is it?”

Noct has to swallow, then lick his lips before he can answer. “Bad.”

“Have you had any word yet?” Ignis’ voice is quiet, too.

“No.” Noct’s sure there’s some old phrase – no news is good news? – but when you’re in hospital waiting for news of somebody who’s badly injured, no news is just a knife in the gut.

“Well. No news is good news,” Ignis says.

“No, Ignis, no news is just no news. It means more damned waiting.” Noct sips from the coffee. Its bitterness is enough to distract him momentarily and he grimaces.

Gladio takes off his cap. “They’re good people here, Noct. If he can be fixed up, they’ll fix him up.”

Noct rubs his face. Stupid Gladio and his stupid direct way of talking. His choice of ‘if’ rather than ‘when’ is telling. “And if he can’t be fixed up?”

“Let’s worry about that if the time comes.” Ignis’ voice is a comfort, even if Noct can’t bring himself to look at his face. It’s the voice that read to him when he was too ill to move after the coma, the voice that always has something useful to say, no matter how much Noct might not want to hear it sometimes.

The door opens again, but Noct doesn’t move from his slouch. He keeps his eyes on the can of Ebony. Gladio and Ignis move to stand, bowing sharply. _Your Majesty_ , they say, almost in unison, and at that Noct looks up.

His father gazes down at him, his expression serious. He rests his hands on his cane.

Noct grits his teeth. Did they get his father to come and give him the bad news himself?

“Gladiolus. Ignis. I need to speak to my son alone.”

“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ignis says with another bow. Gladio bobs his head slowly and echoes Ignis. Noct watches them exchange knowing looks as they leave. Pushing up his glasses, Ignis looks back at Noct before closing the door quietly behind them.

The king lowers himself to the hard sofa, keeping both hands on his cane. “Noctis.”

When Noct finally meets his father’s eyes, it’s to see his old, compassionate expression. It’s the one he used to use when putting him to bed, the one that’s been hidden for several years behind the stress of skirmishes outside the Wall.

“Did they send you to tell me he’s dead?” Noct bites his tongue to prepare himself – to remind himself that this is real, that the next few seconds might change his life.

“No,” Regis says. “I came here to wait with you.” He clasps Noct’s shoulder. “I know how important your friendship with Prompto is.”

Noct masks his eyes with a hand. His throat burns with the effort of controlling his voice. “Can you heal him, then?”

“If I could still invoke curatives, I would.” Regis’ regret is unmissable. “But if I could invoke curatives after raising the Wall, I would have been able to heal my injured son a decade ago.”

They had talked about the loss of Regis’ healing magic before, when Noct had recovered enough from the Marilith attack to ask why daddy didn’t just heal him and make the pain go away. It was still the only time he’d seen his father cry.

Noct knows his father had to surrender his own healing magic to the crystal as a consequence of supporting the Wall. The Kingsglaive could still access it, but for Regis himself it was permanently out of reach.

When Noct had begun managing his own magic, his father had looked straight at him, his voice firm, and told him, _The destruction afforded by elemental magic is easy. Healing is much harder_. _Anyone can destroy. That takes no special skills. It doesn’t even need magic. Healing is the skill of rebuilding something uniquely intricate into its original state. Sometimes, better than its original state. There isn’t a more difficult Caelum skill you will learn._

Even though Noct already knows his father can’t help directly, it’s worth exploring other reserves kept for dire situations. He doesn’t expect to sound so angry when he says, “You could bring a Glaive here.”

“You know I can’t.” Regis doesn’t rise to Noct’s antagonism. “The Kingsglaive have duties they cannot be drawn from at such short notice. Not even for your friend. The matters that are taking place outside the wall keep them fully occupied.”

Noct stands, fists clenched, and turns on his father. “Then what’s the point in having magic!? If we can’t use it to save the people closest to us, why bother at all!?”

“Noctis, you’re missing the point.” Regis’ hands are open as he says, “You are of the line of Lucis. You yourself have it in you to help Prompto.”

“If I could have helped him, I’d have done it under the bus.” For the first time, Noct really feels the grazes on his belly caused by glass and debris. “I wouldn’t have let it get this far.”

“Your old injuries may prevent you from using magic organically, as I do, but you’ve had no difficulty capturing elemental magic in flasks,” Regis says. “Your conjuring skills are exceptional. You’ve learned to adapt the magic you have and make it work.”

Noct leans against the wall with both palms out, trying to force some of the tension from his shoulders. “I can’t do it.” He presses his face into his elbow. “I’ve tried and tried and I can’t do it. I can’t make healing magic work.” He kicks the wall in his frustration.

His father’s hand is large and tight on his shoulder – a reassurance sorely needed. “You are your mother’s son,” Regis says. “She had healing abilities the likes of which hadn’t been recorded in more than seven generations of the Oracle line. It is in you to heal. But the magic doesn’t ask permission, or arrive at a time because you think it should.”

Noct lets his father’s words settle in. The coolness of the wall against his palms is grounding.

Regis’ hand leaves his shoulder, but the warmth remains. Softly, he says, “You can do this, Noctis. It’s a matter of finding the right vessel, the right delivery mechanism, and the right balance of electrolytes.”

“In the right amount of time,” Noct murmurs. “I don’t know how much of that I have.”

There’s a knock at the door, and it opens before father or son can give permission.

The doctor who had tended Prompto on his arrival shies back into the corridor. “Your Majesty! Forgive my intrusion.” She greets Noct with a curt bob of the head. “Your Highness.”

“No, please enter,” Regis entreats, and his cane makes a dull thud on the floor as he moves to sit down. Noct feels too anxious to sit, so he stands to his father’s left, his fingertips brushing the arm of the sofa.

“May I ask after Prompto’s parents?” the doctor asks, after introducing herself as Dr Malum.

“Consider me their emissary,” Regis says. “His mother is on a diplomatic mission, his father trapped in Altissia due to severe weather.”

_Which means he’s already tried to contact them himself_ , Noct thinks. The idea that his father is willing to stand up for Prompto’s best interests in the absence of his parents warms him. Regis has never objected to him being friends with Prompto. If anything, he’d seemed almost excited about it when Noct finally got around to telling him he had a friend outside the royal circle.

“I see.” Dr Malum remains impassive. “I’d rather they were here. Prompto’s condition is very serious.”

Noct presses his fingertips against the arm of the sofa, and his legs start to go numb as Dr Malum explains. Using layman’s terms, she contextualises Prompto’s injuries. She uses phrases like fractured pelvis, cracked ribs, punctured lung, and internal bleeding. She adds ruptured spleen to that list, and then mentions that they’re investigating whether he has a brain injury.

It’s a list that seems almost meaningless at first, just a hodgepodge of technical terms. Noct checks off each one in his head, and lists it under ‘we can deal with this’. It’s not until Dr Malum uses the phrase _life-changing injuries_ that Noct finally surrenders to a seat.

“We’re doing everything we can to stabilise him. But he will need further surgeries and isn’t responding well to treatment. The next forty-eight hours will be crucial.” Dr Malum looks like she’s checked out. This must be one of the worst parts of her job. Second worst, right next to –

Noct tries to overcome the ringing in his ears by swallowing hard. “Can I see him?”

 

Noct’s first glimpse of Prompto is through the glass panel in the door to his room. It takes a moment of scrutiny to confirm it’s him. He looks tiny in the bed, with his arms at rest on top of the blankets. His face is mostly obscured by tubes, but Noct recognises that familiar blonde hair against the pillow.

Dr Malum had warned him that Prompto was on a ventilator, but it doesn’t prepare Noct for the sight. Nor is he prepared for the purplish crescents under Prompto’s eyes, or the tube disappearing down his throat. The neck brace is still in place. His chest is scattered with sensors and leads connected to an electrocardiograph, silently drawing the peaks and troughs of his struggle.

There’s so little of him that seems safe to touch. Noct slips his hand beneath Prompto’s fingers and squeezes them as far down as the knuckle. Emotion strangles his attempts at words, so for a time he just stands, unable to move and feeling like the world has become one made of dandelion clocks and salt water.

As Noct had stumbled his way towards Prompto’s room, Dr Malum had told him, _Due to the extent of his injuries he’s very heavily sedated. He won’t be able to talk, but he might be able to hear you._

Noct looks down at Prompto’s bruised face, and struggles to speak over a throat that feels too swollen for it. “You asked me if it was time.” He squeezes Prompto’s fingers again. “It’s not time. I’m going to fix this. I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Leaning over the only bit of Prompto’s face not covered in tape or tubes, he kisses his cheek. What he says is thin and blurry and not much of a declaration at all. But it is his own, freely given, and Noct feels better for saying it – in case he doesn’t fix it, in case he really can’t learn how to heal. “I love you.”

 

Magic is driven by the will of the wielder. Noct remembers this as he stalks down the corridor, his phone to his ear. His will is great. Neither the crystal nor the magic will find him lacking in that.

Ignis doesn’t take more than a second or two to pick up. “Noct? What’s happening?”

“I need you to find me everything you possibly can that will hold a liquid. Anything. _Everything_. And tell Gladio I need every substance he can find that will dissolve in water and conduct electricity.”

“I know we spoke of you getting a hobby, Noct, but why are you collecting electrolytes?”

“I’m going to heal Prompto myself. I’m going to figure out how to summon healing magic if it kills me.”

“Do you realise how long that will take? Just gathering the possible ingredients you need for testing will take hours.”

“Then there’s no time to argue!” Noct ends the call.

He steps up to the intensive care unit’s reception desk, where a man with large glasses and an empathetic smile stands to bow. “Can I help you, Your Highness?”

“I need a room where I won’t be disturbed. Preferably somewhere near here. Possibly for several days.”

“I understand. Let me arrange this for you. Please, take a seat.”

Noct doesn’t hear the request to sit. He’s already on his way back to the family room, where his father still waits.

Regis looks up from folded hands when Noct enters. The tired expression is back, the one Noct’s been used to seeing these past few months. Perhaps there’s been bad news from the Citadel while he’s been here. He certainly looks unhappy.

“I need you to help me. You’re right, I can do this.” Noct feels himself sweating more than usual as his anxiety ramps up. His father’s expression doesn’t change, as though he hasn’t heard him. His only response is a single blink.

Regis repositions his feet, then sits back. He looks squarely at Noct. “Dr Malum returned while you were at Prompto’s side. His condition is worsening. His body is suffering a cascade of inflammation and his liver is failing. If other organs follow…” He shakes his head minutely. “Noctis, we will do our best, but you must understand it may not be enough.”

Noct can’t listen to this. Not now. Not while there’s time, not when there’s actually something he can do. His fists clench at his sides.

“It _will_ be enough! Because I am _not_ leaving this hospital until I can heal!” Noct’s kick connects with a plastic reception chair, but it’s hard to reconcile the noise of it crashing across the room with his own action. He puts both hands on the back of his neck, closes his eyes, and counts as something to focus on.

One.

_“Hey, Noct, buddy. Help me level up in the new game, ‘crap, my science report is due’? There’s pizza in it for you!”_

Two.

_“Dude, you’re too grumpy today. Sun’s shining, and some genius invented ice cream. What’s to be grumpy about?”_

Three.

_“Do you ever wonder what life is like on the other side of the Wall? I’ve seen pictures, sure, but going there, experiencing that? That’s got to be wild. I’d love to take photos of my own there one day.”_

Noct swears to himself that when this is over, someday they will leave Insomnia together and Prompto _will_ get those photos he wants so badly.

 

Industry begins as soon as the empathetic receptionist has secured them a room. Gladio brings a bag of table salt to get them started – the easiest of all electrolytes to find. He doesn’t pause before leaving for others. Ignis has secured several containers, all of differing sizes and materials, mostly by asking nicely around the hospital. There’s a blood sample vial, two different sizes of syringe, an empty bottle of morphine, a specimen container, and a urinal bottle.

“Seriously?” Noct says when he sees the unused urinal.

“You said anything and everything. I’ll let you decide what you actually mean by that,” Ignis says on his way out of the door to continue the search.

While his father sets out the baseline for their efforts – a saline solution of 0.9% salt in the specimen container – he tells Noct all the things he needs to know before he can create that most powerful of all magic.

_All magics are dependent on your own physical, emotional, and spiritual health, and your power of will. You know best how your own magic expresses itself. Healing magic needs something more, and in this magic you are not a vessel. You don’t_ contain _the ability to heal. You are a conduit for it._

_You must put out of your head all sense of worry – yes, I know that may seem counter-intuitive. Worry will weaken the connection, even when you have discovered how it works. Healing magic will not respond to worry or rage._

_Healing is a state of mind. It is a gift given to those in great need, and to those whom you want to spare from pain – or even death. Wanting to spare them is not enough, though. The crystal will not extend itself to your wants just because you are its chosen._

_Healing magic cannot be bartered with. You cannot promise a future payment to it, either. You must open your heart and appeal to it as though you are without pride, without distrust. It must agree to travel through you and be captured. The magic is blind without your petition to it. Only you can decide who is worthy, and that will form an unconscious part of your conjury._

_The right balance of electrolytes will conduct the magic like an electrical current, but there is only one way to generate it in the first place. I can’t guide you in that. My methods will be different. You must find the way that works for you. And if you wish to save Prompto you must do it quickly._

They try several different concentrations of salt water. With every attempt, Noct does his best to curtail the constant worry – but every time, just when he thinks he’s suppressed it, there it is again, right at the forefront of his mind. The mental image of Prompto being kept alive by machines is awful and pervasive. Noct knows Prompto will be fascinated with the story when healed. Technology draws him in all ways, even the grisly ones.

Whenever Noct summons elemental magic, there is always the sudden thrill of adrenaline, followed by intense fatigue. There is no response from the magic now, though. Noct can’t even sense a flicker of its presence. The adrenaline brought about by his fear is a low throb, but there’s no sign of the increased activity needed to cast magic.

“How will I know when it works?” Noct asks, trying to maintain his calm.

“When you figure out how to channel it, you’ll know,” his father says. “The experience is unmistakeable. But even when you’ve learned how to channel, you’ll still have to find the right carrier and vessel.”

Regis prepares another saline solution, this time for one of the syringes. He doesn’t get to finish before his smartphone rings. He looks apologetically at Noct, and answers.

Noct takes over Regis’ work, making a note of the exact electrolyte content and drawing it up into the syringe. He tries not to listen to his father’s words. He already knows what happens next.

When his father puts his phone away, Noct doesn’t look up from his work. “You’re going back to the Citadel.”

“I’m sorry.” He puts his hand on Noct’s shoulder. “I will make sure Dr Malum knows how to contact me.”

“And if I need to contact you?”

“The same as Dr Malum. Call. I need to be present at the council meeting, but that doesn’t mean I can’t step out.”

 

Noct works alone for hours, trying different containers with different solutions. He writes notes about what worked and what didn’t, his papers getting grubbier as he gets more desperate. After the first seventeen, he starts marking solutions out of ten. If a solution raises a weak response from his latent magic when he tries to dispense, it gets a score of one. If it raises the oxygen level of the solution, it’s given a score of two. A spike of adrenaline is three. A flash of blue light, four.

It’s late by the time Noct decides to take a break. He’s tested ninety-two combinations of solution and vessel, and still hasn’t got a response higher than four on his scale. Gladio and Ignis have been coming and going with liquids and solubles for hours, but Noct isn’t much closer to finding out how to channel the healing magic that won’t come, no matter how hard he begs it.

Sitting in a plastic chair like the one he broke, he stares at the clock on the wall. Four-fifteen in the morning. The exertion is starting to get to him. His eyes throb, and the walls of the room pulse in time with the pain. He can’t stop for long. He’s doing something right because he’s sensing minor magical movements, but it’s not right enough.

Prompto’s kidneys have started to fail. Dr Malum wouldn’t give a survival rate, not even when pressed. Instead, she’d said, _I can see you’re a great friend to Prompto, Your Highness. Perhaps you could come and be with him for a while, since his parents aren’t here? You can take the time to say anything you need to say._

The thought is bullet-quick through Noct’s head, leaving a blazing wound behind it. Maybe he should go and sit with Prompto. Maybe he should give up these stupid, stupid experiments and go be with his best friend, go and hold his hand as his body gives him up to the astrals.

Noct presses both fists to his knees. He can’t give up. Not yet.

Tears spatter his torn uniform trousers as he sobs.

 

Noct doesn’t realise he’s nodded off until the door opens and Ignis walks in, with Gladio close behind. Noct rubs his eyes, trying to stop swaying as he finds his feet.

“Noct.” Ignis puts down a bag of what smells like takeaway chow mein. “You can’t afford to use all your energies on this. Eat, and sleep for a few hours. Then try again at sun-up.”

“Prompto doesn’t have time for that.” Noct stumbles across to the table and sets his attention back to his last experiment.

“Don’t you think you’ll have an easier time with the magic if you sleep a bit?” Gladio asks, emptying the bag and setting out three metal containers of food. He starts to flip the card lids off them.

Noct looks at the food. Usually he’d already be claiming his share, but the idea of eating turns his stomach. He shakes his head. “Not for me.”

It takes Ignis and Gladio a further ten minutes to convince Noct to sit with them and eat at least half a serving of noodles. Grudgingly he acquiesces, eating too quickly and giving himself wind.

Ignis roots in the almost empty bags as Noct pushes back his chair. “And if you refuse to sleep, then at least use this.”

Noct takes the bottle without thinking. It’s not until he feels the coldness of it in his hand and the ribbed curve of the bottle that he realises what it is.

“Energy drink?” Noct always liked that brand. He and Prompto had managed to get through a four-pack between them while grinding up levels in King’s Knight. It had been a Saturday night, soon after they’d started playing the game. He remembers that both of them were red-eyed and laughing, and not in any hurry to part with each other’s company.

A phrase on the side of the bottle catches Noct’s eye. _Replenishes electrolytes to keep you hard at it all day._

Noct feels winded. It’s all he can do to keep his hands from shaking as he twists the lid off the bottle urgently and closes his eyes, holding the glass tightly between both palms.

“What are you – ” But Ignis’ voice can’t follow Noct into communion with the magic.

Noct senses the disconnection from his body, but it doesn’t bother him. His eyes are numb and overfull somehow, yet no longer pained. He’s surrounded in blue light, but it seems to be spilling out from inside him somewhere. For a second he panics, and it weakens his generation of the light. _Let go_ , something tells him – an instinct? An interloper in his mind?

His feet no longer feel the upward pressure of the ground beneath them. The breeze brushing his skin is akin to that of a late springtime evening. He’s sure he’s naked, but he’s also pleasantly warm. It’s not simply that he’s without his clothes – it feels as though all the hair has been shed from his body, as though he is a being made entirely of light.

A noise, or a taste – something without form that waxes and wanes nearby – gently probes. _Your offer?_

Noct remembers his father’s guidance: he can’t barter with the magic.

_I have nothing to offer except all that I am,_ he intimates _._ He tries to hold onto the memory of both he and Prompto laughing; the gesture Prompto always uses to call him over; the effort of trying to get that one limited run t-shirt for Prompto’s birthday – but they filter through his mind like water through a sieve.

Noct can’t possibly explain to the presence. There are no words to encapsulate his friendship with Prompto. Memories of the hurt and desperation he felt when Prompto was trapped overwhelm him. He gasps with the force of it. At the centre of his bluelit form is a sudden, cavernous sense of loss.

The presence reaches into his head, leaving a scarlet kiss of heat.

_Accepted_ , it intimates, and shoves him hard.

 

Noct opens his eyes to find Ignis grasping him by the arms and staring at him. “Noct? Are you all right? Are you going to answer me?”

Gladio maintains a defense position on his right, expression guarded. “Left us for a minute or two there, buddy.”

For a few seconds more, all Noct can feel is the flood of endorphins from being ejected by the presence. The feeling is followed by a sense of contentment so acute it makes the inside of his mouth taste like honey. He can hardly speak around it.

“I did it.” He doesn’t need to look at the energy drink between his hands, fizzing and blue and so recently upgraded to a bottle of life-preserving potion. He just knows.

 

It’s still alarming to see Prompto in his weakened state. It’s the first time Ignis and Gladio have seen him here, and both faces are downcast in concern.

“Now you see why I couldn’t wait,” Noct says, holding the potion to his chest. He looks down at Prompto’s face, still covered in tape and tubes. Dr Malum is preparing to remove the tube pumping air into Prompto’s chest. Removing the tape around the mouthpiece, she secures her grip on the tube and puts a finger on the switch of the ventilator.

“Highness, are you sure about this? His condition is so unstable that we may not be able to get him breathing again if he stops.”

Noct licks his lips. “Yeah. I’m sure. I wouldn’t do it if I wasn’t.”

“Then you’ll need to be quick,” she says. “Are you ready?”

Noct nods. It occurs to him that he doesn’t know if Prompto should drink it or be splashed with it, but it’s too late to deliberate further. With a click Dr Malum turns off the ventilator, and its display panel goes out. Without the puff and beep of it, the room is eerily quiet.

The doctor’s hands are assured on the syringe as she administers a drug to reverse Prompto’s sedation. Noct counts every one of the fifteen agonising seconds it takes before she withdraws the needle.

Prompto tenses and gives a guttural moan. He starts to choke on the tube.

“That’s it, Prompto, cough. And again. Cough for me. That’s it.” Dr Malum drags the tube out as he does so. His weakness and pain is struck right through the coughing. Noct doesn’t have to plan the next few seconds: he has the cure for Prompto’s pain. The need to administer it is instinctual.

Noct isn’t hesitant as he pours the potion over his friend’s chest, up and over his neck, down over his stomach, covering his pelvis and legs. For completion he splashes some in his palm and sprinkles it over Prompto’s forehead. He doesn’t know if it needs to be applied everywhere, or if a few drops is enough.

He strokes Prompto’s forehead. Even with Ignis and Gladio there, he can feel no shame in it, no self-consciousness. The scarlet kiss the presence left him with seems satisfied with that feeling.

Prompto groans slightly, but it’s less soul-deep than before. He doesn’t move from his back, but the breaths don’t appear to cause pain. Without opening his eyes, he flops an arm over his face.

“Prompto?” Noct puts a hand on his upper arm. He daren’t ask anything else – he’s not sure he’ll want the answers.

Prompto’s hand drops to his chest. He rubs the wetness there. Then, with a perplexed expression, he teases the hospital gown between finger and thumb. “I’m wet. Why’m I wet?”

Opening one eye, he gazes blearily up at Noct. He startles as he takes in the view of the hospital room behind him, then at something he sees on Noct’s face. He struggles to move upright, apparently not noticing the cannula in his hand.

“Dude, are you – ”

Noct assumes Prompto’s next word will be ‘okay’, but he doesn’t hear it as he flings both arms around him and squeezes. He daren’t open his eyes. Daren’t speak, daren’t think, daren’t hope. His heart lifts in spite of his nerves: he knows Prompto couldn’t have sat up like that with a fractured pelvis. Or failed kidneys, broken ribs, a brain injury… Even the bruises under his eyes have disappeared.

“I don’t know what’s happened.” Prompto is addressing somebody over Noct’s shoulder, but his arms come up and settle on Noct’s back anyway. It doesn’t matter that he’s not talking to Noct directly. What matters is that he can talk at all – that good health now warms his body.

“You’ve just been the catalyst for Noct’s discovery of healing magic,” Ignis says. “I should lie still for a bit if I were you.”

“Uh. Okay?” Prompto says. Even the bemusement of his answer makes Noct smile.

He still daren’t open his eyes. Clasping the back of Prompto’s neck, he brushes a kiss against his cheek. It’s a second more before he can say, “Thank you.”

The scarlet kiss glows in a way that is wholly satisfying.

 

Every day until the end of term, no matter the weather, Noct makes sure that somebody is available to pick them up at the school gates. It’s usually still Ignis, but Noct takes no further chances.

One day, when the sky is a brilliant mosaic of white clouds and blue sky, Noct asks what Prompto remembers about the day the bus hit the shelter.

Past the odd patch of whining about forgotten jackets or being two points lower on a test than Noct, Prompto has never been one to dwell on his own personal hardships. He explains calmly that he can recall the bus coming towards him, and reaching out to shove people away. He doesn’t remember being hit, but he does remember being pinned. With a sideways grin, he admits to knowing Noct came to join him under the bus and, although he doesn’t remember exactly what happened, he gives a shy glance that suggests he remembers being comforted.

Prompto interrupts himself as he spots the sleek Star of Lucis, hugging the corner and slinking into the road. His slings his backpack casually behind him on his shoulder and heads towards it as it slows to a stop.

“Hey,” calls Noct, picking up his own backpack from between his feet. “Do you remember anything about being in a coma?”

“Nope. Not a thing,” Prompto says with honest cheeriness “Why? Did you tell me all your secrets?” He beams as he opens the rear passenger door and climbs in.

Noct smiles too as he bundles in next to him, slamming the door. “Nah. You’re not important enough to get state secrets, not even on your deathbed.”

“Dude! Seriously?” Prompto’s look of horror is worth the jibe. Just.

Noct punches him lightly in the top of his perfectly healed arm, and they cackle together as Ignis pulls away from the kerb.


End file.
